


Aftermath

by akamww3



Series: Encounters [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brief (But Not Very) Violent Act, F/M, Mollcroft, Mycroft Tells It Like (He Thinks) It Is, Parental Interference, Post-TAB Setting, Sherlock Faces Consequences For His Bad Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 16:43:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6122869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akamww3/pseuds/akamww3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Just what caused Mycroft to react as he did in "The Fallout" ... and what happens as a result of his actions?</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> <em>[Note: I've repeated the "Fallout" scene in this since it was so short and shows the full scene in context.]</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> Half past one in the morning, settled deep in his favorite chair, long legs stretched toward the fire, lights low … Mycroft Holmes raised his head as he took another sip of his drink, then set the whisky glass on the side table. He relaxed against the chair back with a tired sigh, his eyelids drooping as he stared at the dying embers before being lulled into a light doze by the slow, soporific _tock … tock … tock_ … from the longcase clock in the hall ….

_~ Two hours earlier ~_

“Simon? A detour if you please … to my brother’s.”

Mycroft sat back, staring unseeingly out the window as he took up the argument with himself again. He’d felt edgy since leaving Molly’s and knew that confronting Sherlock in his presently unsettled mood would likely do nothing but lead to more conflict. He was further unsettled by the small part of him – small, but irritatingly persistent – that _wanted_ a confrontation, and the sooner, the better. His more rational side, the one he lived his life by, advised that he exercise his usual prudence and bide his time before responding to his brother’s deliberate provocation. Besides, Sherlock might already be in bed … which Mycroft knew was highly unlikely even as the thought occurred to him.

Ten minutes later, they made the turn onto Baker Street and the car drew up outside the flat. Mycroft tilted his head to study the first floor windows, then pressed his lips together at seeing the thin slit of light showing along the edge of the sitting room drapes. _That’s it then._

As he pushed the car door open, Mycroft heard the low sound of Sherlock’s violin. Moments later, his brows flicked upward when he unlocked the street door and recognized the Brahms sonata wafting down the stairwell. The slow tempo and minor key of the _adagio_ passage hardly suited the state of mind he’d expected to find Sherlock in.

The music faded away when Mycroft reached the first floor landing. “Do come in, brother dear.” Now _that_ … the insolent tone … was as expected.

Mycroft stopped inside the door to remove his coat and scarf and hang up his umbrella. He glanced around the room, his gaze lingering for a few moments on the revolting mess that cluttered the kitchen table while he briefly considered the potential as a biohazard … then his eyes met Sherlock’s as he lowered himself into the chair facing his brother. “Sherlock,” he said calmly, crossing his legs.

Sherlock’s lips twisted, then one shoulder lifted in a dismissive shrug as he set the violin and bow aside. He deliberately slouched lower into the chair and stretched his legs out, wiggling his bare toes for a few moments before crossing his ankles. “Why are you here,” he asked carelessly as his fingers drummed an uneven rhythm on the edges of the armrests.

Mycroft jaw tightened as he clenched his teeth, and several moments elapsed before he responded. “Try as I might,” he finally said, as evenly as possible, “I can find no justification for your actions this week, Sherlock.”

“And I thought you were the smart one.”

“I _am_ the smart one.” Mycroft briefly closed his eyes, exasperated with himself for rising to such stale bait. “This has been petty, little brother,” he went on, meeting Sherlock’s gaze. “It’s been childish - and, in the case of Miss Hooper, _cruel_ \- and I find the latter insupportable, if not unforgivable.” Mycroft’s expression hardened further. “How could you have taken Mummy and Dad to her flat like that … _how?”_

“If your relationship was such a secret, you should have been more careful.”

“That’s your defense?”

“Why should you care if our parents know about Molly?”

“That’s not the point, Sherlock, as you well know,” Mycroft ground out. “You embarrassed Miss Hooper on purpose. What has she ever done to make you want to humiliate her that way?”

“Would you stop with the ‘Miss Hoopers’. You being so formal under the circumstances makes me feel ill.” Sherlock shot to his feet and started pacing around the room. “Molly’s supposed to be my friend, not yours.”

“You treat your ‘friends’ very poorly, Sherlock, and I don’t mean just Miss – _Molly.”_ Mycroft watched his brother make another twitchy circuit around the sitting room, then released a long breath through his nose. “Molly’s still your friend. Nothing that may have happened between us changes that. However, the potential effect of y _our_ actions on how she sees you is something else entirely.”

“‘May have happened’,” Sherlock scoffed. “Admit it, brother dear … you’ve been _screwing_ her.”

_“Sherlock!”_ Mycroft surged to his feet, blocking Sherlock’s path, then forced his muscles to relax as he watched his brother’s restless movements and felt the nervous energy emanating from him. “Have you taken something?”

Sherlock’s gaze stopped flitting around the room and focused on Mycroft’s. “No.”

Mycroft held his eyes for several moments, then studied him carefully before sighing and stepping back to allow Sherlock to pass. “Why are you so agitated at the thought of –,” he broke off as his brother stopped at the desk, still fidgeting as he flipped through some papers. “You’ve never been interested in Molly as anything other than a friend - if that,” Mycroft said, then continued more tentatively. “Has that … changed?”

“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock snapped, his movements finally stilling as he turned to face Mycroft. “Does Molly know you don’t care for her? That it’s just … _sex?”_

Mycroft’s eyes closed and he drew a slow breath through his nose, finding it difficult to show restraint in the face of such an invasion of his privacy. “Molly and I do not have a romantic relationship,” he said after a few moments. “Neither of us was interested in that.” Mycroft briefly looked away, then their gazes met again as he continued. “Whatever it was, we’ve agreed to end it.”

Sherlock’s face went blank for a moment as he stared at Mycroft, then his expression and tone changed to one of bored indifference. “Are you sure she’s not heartbroken? That she didn’t want something more?” Sherlock stepped closer to his brother, watching him carefully. “Molly must pray to the patron saint of lost causes every night. After all, she spent years pining for me, long after it should have been obvious that her feelings were never going to be reciprocated.” Mycroft started to turn away and so missed the calculating look Sherlock gave him, but not the snide remark. “I suppose for Molly’s purposes one Holmes brother was just as good as the other once the lights went out –”

Mycroft swung around and punched Sherlock – a single, forceful jab to the point of his chin, sending him staggering backward until he landed half on, half off the sofa. Mycroft successfully overcame the instinct to help Sherlock up as he moved closer while unobtrusively flexing his right hand. Mycroft stood over him, studying the red mark spreading over Sherlock’s jaw, and suddenly thought of his parents and their plans for the following day.

“If you’re expecting an apology,” Mycroft said as he turned toward the kitchen, “it will be a long wait.” His footsteps paused mid-stride at the muttered “Ditto” that came from behind him, then he continued to the refrigerator to look for something cold to put on Sherlock’s bruise – an effort that at first seemed likely to prove fruitless.

Mycroft’s upper lip curled in distaste as he eyed yet another plastic bag and set it aside to dig deeper, trying to find an appropriate frozen package … almost anything with non-human contents would do. _Ah._ A bag of frozen peas, apparently suffering a bad case of freezer burn, but perfect for Mycroft’s purposes. He quickly searched several kitchen drawers – another lip-curling experience – until he located a clean tea towel, which he wrapped around the peas before returning to the sitting room to stand over Sherlock, who was still inelegantly sprawled half off the sofa.

Sherlock’s eyelids lifted partway and his eyes briefly met Mycroft’s before hurriedly shifting to his offering. He sat up with a muffled groan, then reached for the makeshift ice-pack and held it against his lower face as he sank back onto the cushions and closed his eyes.

After taking a seat, Mycroft crossed his legs, leaned his head against the back of the chair, and then – with a fleeting glance at Sherlock from under his brows - carefully spread and stretched the fingers of his right hand before discreetly rubbing the knuckles with his other thumb. The single jab had been sheer instinct, without planning or conscious thought, and he’d felled his brother with one sharp, forceful blow. Mycroft suppressed a sigh and settled more comfortably into the armchair, closing his eyes as the silence settled around them.

“It’s just as well you don’t care about Molly,” Sherlock eventually remarked matter-of-factly as he flipped the icepack to its cooler side. “Otherwise, you might have broken my jaw.”

“There’s still time,” Mycroft calmly observed, then his lids slowly lifted and his eyes met Sherlock’s. “From now on, brother dear, if I were you I’d watch what I say about or to Miss Hooper.”

Sherlock snorted as he shifted his gaze to the ceiling. “Oh, yeah … not one jot.”

A crease appeared between Mycroft’s brows as he stared uncomprehendingly at his brother, but he refused to give Sherlock the satisfaction of rising to his bait again. A few moments later, Mycroft rose to his feet and crossed the room to put on his coat and scarf, then paused as he reached for his umbrella. “By the way, Sherlock … Mummy said to tell you she expects you for lunch tomorrow - one o’clock,” he said smoothly, then exited the flat with a smile on his face and the sound of Sherlock’s pained groan in his ears ….

~ ~ ~

The steady _tock_ from the escapement was joined by the sudden clicking of gears and a metallic whir as the hall clock prepared to chime. When the hammer struck the first note of the sequence, Mycroft abruptly straightened, shifted his gaze from the fire to his drink on the side table, and finished the whisky with a toss of his head. He stared at the dying fire awhile longer, considering the consequences of his earlier loss of composure while strenuously avoiding any conclusion as to its cause.

Eventually Mycroft sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, then rose to his feet and stooped to spread the last of the embers with the poker before closing the glass fire doors and making his weary way upstairs.

~~~~~

_Baker Street, Saturday morning_

Sherlock’s fingers blindly searched the top of the night table for his mobile, then his hand quickly drew back under the covers.

“Mummy,” he mumbled thickly, wondering why his tongue felt swollen – and sore, he noted with a wince. He suddenly realized he’d missed what his mother said … not that he really cared, but … “What?”

A disapproving sigh from the phone. “Are you still in bed, Sherlock? It’s already half past ten and we’re expecting you here by noon.”

Sherlock tossed the bedclothes aside, emerging from beneath them with a spectacular scowl and a remarkable case of bedhead. _“Noon?_ Mycroft said one o’clock.” Trust his brother to get it wrong deliberately.

“We’ve decided we’ll need more time to have a proper lunch,” she said, unruffled by the petulance in her son’s voice. “Your father and I have to leave for the theatre by two.”

“It’s not really convenient –”

“We expect you to be here by noon, Sherlock,” she said firmly. “Eating in our suite will allow more privacy to talk.”

Well, _that_ sounded ominous. Sherlock stopped trying to determine the best way to get his mother off the phone to instead consider what he’d done recently that might warrant parental intervention in his – _Oh._

“Will it be just the three of us?” Quite nonchalant, that.

“Yes,” his mother confirmed. “Your father and I thought it would be cozier and more conducive to a nice chat.”

_Oh god._

~~~~~

_The Savoy … one minute before noon_

Sherlock quickly stepped over the threshold when his father opened the suite’s door, making sure his mother had no opportunity to stage a scene in the corridor. He didn’t know whether to expect her usual affectionate embrace … or a slap across the face – figuratively, if not literally. Unlike Molly, his mother had never actually given in to such a temptation.

Either way, Violet swooped in and pounced on him all too soon.

“Sherlock,” she greeted him fondly, then proceeded to squeeze the breath out of him. His eyes unintentionally met Siger’s over her shoulder, and the younger man’s scowl relaxed into an eye roll and a much less fierce twist of lips. Violet released him with a final kiss to his cheek, but her gaze settled for a moment on the red mark on Sherlock’s chin before she turned away. “Come on, boys. We need to tuck in.”

Siger rested a hand on his son’s back and urged him to follow Violet to the table where their lunch was already set out. They’d ordered a rather light fare – smoked salmon, onion soup, vegetable crudités, apple crumble – both to tempt Sherlock into eating something and to avoid their usual Saturday afternoon drowsiness following a heavy mid-day meal. Their matinee tickets to the latest hit revival were in a prime spot and had thus been a bit steep, so they certainly didn’t want to doze off halfway through the performance.

Sherlock suffered their attentiveness to both his plate and his palate. When he couldn’t suppress a wince at the effect of salt on his sore tongue, Violet was quick to notice. “What’s wrong, Sherlock? I thought you liked onion soup.”

“This is fine, Mummy,” he agreed obligingly. “I just have a sore place where I accidentally bit my tongue.”

Violet’s eyes were again drawn to, and quickly shifted away from, the red mark on his chin. Her gaze momentarily met her husband’s in silent communication before they both turned back to their salmon. They continued to chat occasionally as the meal progressed, not pressing Sherlock to join in, until Violet was spooning up their pudding. “What was that really about yesterday, Sherlock?”

Sherlock didn’t attempt to act confused by her question. “I thought you’d like to know brother dear finally has a girlfriend.” He paused, then added. “Had.” Violet and Siger glanced at each other, but decided to ignore the implication of the correction.

“That ambush was very poorly done of you, son,” Siger said after a few moments. “Very bad indeed.” Sherlock looked up at that, finding it more difficult to face his father’s disappointment than his mother’s wrath. “It was not the act of a gentleman, Sherlock – and certainly not behavior to be expected from a friend. You deliberately embarrassed that young lady.” Sherlock lowered his eyes to his plate, having no ready defense to the accusation. Siger sighed before continuing. “Why are you so angry with Molly?”

“I’m not –” Sherlock closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, hoping against hope that when he opened his eyes again, he’d be back at Baker Street and the visit with his parents would have been a bad dream. Sherlock sighed without realizing it and turned away to look out the window. Behind him, his parents’ eyes met with the hope that they’d said enough and their son was actually thinking things through for himself.

Sherlock wasn’t really angry, he was confused. Molly was _Sherlock’s_ friend, not Mycroft’s. His brother was supposed to be content to be alone, wasn't supposed to be interested in any goldfish - and particularly not one that belonged to Sherlock. Mycroft and Molly were both _his_ but they’d apparently forged some sort of _them_ that he wasn’t part of. _Why was he angry with them?_ Mycroft had betrayed him by proving to be human after all. Molly had chosen Mycroft over Sherlock …, but even as the thought occurred, Sherlock realized it made no sense since he’d never wanted Molly that way.

“Why are you so angry with them, Sherlock,” Violet asked quietly, hoping her timing was right. “What do you want them to do?”

“Mycroft told me they’ve ended it, whatever it was.” Sherlock finally turned back and met his mother’s eyes.

“Is that what you wanted? To break up whatever was between them?”

He didn’t answer directly. “Mycroft doesn’t need anyone.”

“Mycroft doesn’t _want_ to need anyone,” she corrected. “And he’s in such control of himself that he makes sure of it.”

“He’s always believed that caring is not an advantage,” Sherlock said crankily.

“Caring isn’t an advantage in some ways, darling,” Violet agreed. “Caring certainly makes one more vulnerable, but caring can also make one stronger.” She paused, then stretched across the table to grasp his hand. “Look at yourself, Sherlock. You’ve grown to care about a number of people. You’ve surrounded yourself with a wonderful group of friends. It may be small, but it’s choice.”

“They’re not –”

“Don’t even attempt to say they aren’t friends,” she said, patting his hand before sitting back. “I know what you did to protect John Watson, Detective Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. And you’ve accepted Mary into your circle of friends as well. But _Molly_ – well, Molly’s something special, isn’t she. She’s the one you knew you could truly count on to help you, no matter what, whenever you needed it.”

“Molly _loves_ me,” he said mockingly.

“Sherlock, you should be ashamed of yourself,” Violet said sharply, leaning forward again. “Molly _does_ love you.”

“Then why was she with Mycroft?”

“Sherlock,” she said, shaking her head. “You don’t want Molly that way, do you?” She winced when he made a gagging noise. “That’s rude, son, but I assume it’s not targeted at Molly specifically.” She considered him more closely. “You’re hardly a child, my darling … you know the majority of people have certain needs –”

“Oh god,” he groaned. “I’m going to be sick.”

“Not a child, dear,” Violet reminded him briskly. “It’s absolutely _fine_ if you aren’t interested in all that, but you can’t begrudge those of us who are.” She gave Siger a quick smile when her husband rested his hand on hers.

“But Mycroft never –”

“Do you really know that, Sherlock? Do you know for a fact that your brother hasn’t had prior relationships of some sort that he kept private from us?”

“He’s never said –”

“Do you really expect that he would? No one’s better at keeping secrets than your brother.”

_“I’m_ better,” he said, lips pushing out in a distinct pout.

“No, Sherlock … you’re not,” she said lightly. “You let things slip without always knowing it or when you just don’t care at the moment.” She tilted her head, considering whether to pursue the topic. “Sherlock, it’s none of our business what your brother does in his private life - or whether he _has_ a private life. Your father and I may be curious -” she stopped to frown at Siger when he cleared his throat. “All right, _I_ may be curious about it – that’s a mother’s prerogative – but we have no right to intrude.”

A few moments passed in silence, then Siger took over. “You need to make this right with Molly, son. As for your brother,” he said, briefly lowering his gaze to the red mark on Sherlock’s chin, “I’m sure he’ll deal with you as he deems appropriate.”

“Now hurry up and eat your pudding,” Violet said. “Your father and I have to leave in less than an hour, and I want to hear all about your goddaughter.”

Sherlock suppressed another scowl. While he was happy enough that the initial interrogation seemed to be over, having to come up with sufficient details about John’s and Mary’s newborn to satisfy his mother might prove to be just as stressful.

~~~~~

The next morning, the senior Holmeses were enjoying a leisurely Sunday breakfast in the Thames Foyer when Siger nudged Violet’s foot and discreetly tilted his head toward the grand entrance … where their elder son had just appeared, casually standing at the top of the short flight of stairs, one hand in his trouser pocket, as he carefully studied the room.

Violet glanced over her shoulder for a moment, then turned back to meet Siger’s eyes as they shared yet again - for no doubt the thousandth time or more - the bemused wonder which came with the knowledge that this cool, elegant man had sprung from them … a man who was every bit as exotic in his own way as his younger brother. They continued eating, waiting for Mycroft to join them in his own time.

“Mummy? Dad?”

They looked up with convincingly happy surprise, they thought, then got to their feet to greet him properly – a relatively muted display which nevertheless required Mycroft to suppress a grimace before his mother finally released him. “Will you have something to eat, darling?”

“I’ve already had breakfast, Mummy, but I’ll take some tea,” he said, settling on the chair between them.

“You sure you don’t want a croissant at least, son?”

“No thanks, Dad.” Mycroft watched as his mother filled his teacup, then he gave his first sip far more attention than it deserved. He lifted his gaze and studied the effect of the morning light filtering through the stained glass cupola and lighting the wrought iron gazebo, then turned to his mother. “Did you enjoy the plays?”

Violet carefully swallowed a bite of smoky bacon before answering. By the time she’d finished her enthusiastic – and lengthy – review of two plays and one musical, Siger’s plate and Mycroft’s cup were both empty … and Mycroft’s determinedly interested expression had long since faded into one of polite resignation.

“Isn’t that right, dear?”

Siger cheerfully supported his wife’s opinion as he had the other ten or so times she’d asked him to confirm some detail of her report. Mycroft glanced at his father, who met his gaze earnestly but with an underlying amusement that caused the corners of Mycroft’s lips to curve up.

“More tea, dear? Mykie?” Mycroft suppressed a scowl at the hated nickname. Both men refused a refill, then rose to their feet when Violet started to push her chair back a few minutes later. Mycroft allowed his father to beat him to helping his mother stand, waited patiently while they gathered their things, and then fell into step behind them.

His father paused halfway across the room and glanced over his shoulder. “You _are_ coming to our suite for a visit, aren’t you, son?”

“That’s why I’m here, Dad,” he replied evenly, showing no sign of the muscle-tightening tension he was fighting. He followed them into the lift, then down the corridor and through the door of their suite. As his parents settled on the sofa, Mycroft walked past them to stare out the large window, lowering his eyes to watch the boat traffic on the river for a few moments, before lifting his gaze to the Eye to study the way the surprisingly bright sun reflected off the slowly revolving capsules. He finally turned around, his gaze taking in the marble foyer, the artwork and furnishings before he looked at his parents, gave them a brief smile and strolled to the chair set at a right angle to them. While he would have expected his parents to choose an Edwardian suite, he was a bit surprised that they’d splurged on this particular one. “Go ahead then,” he said calmly, arching a brow as he settled more comfortably into the chair and crossed his legs with languid grace.

Violet and Siger looked at each other, nonplussed by Mycroft’s attitude, then turned back, only to find him regarding them with undisguised amusement. “I’m aware that you’ve already interrogated Sherlock, so I’m sure you have questions for me … and my intentions toward a certain Miss Molly Hooper.” When they continued to stare silently, he continued unruffled. “I’ll save time then. I _have_ no intentions toward Miss Hooper, or vice versa. We’ve lately become friends – or _friendly_ would be more accurate, I suppose.” He stroked his cheek absent-mindedly, then gave them a brief smile. “She’s really more Sherlock’s friend than mine.”

Violet’s eyes held his for a moment, then she tilted her head sideways to examine him more closely … and his eyes slid away as he mentally braced himself. He schooled his features into a neutral mask when his mother sighed. “Oh, Mycroft,” she said sadly. “This isn’t Redbeard again – you don’t have to sacrifice your claim on Molly to pacify your baby brother.”

Mycroft scowled before he could catch himself, then rubbed a hand over his face and gave Violet a withering look. “I have no ‘claim’ on Miss – on _Molly,_ ” he said evenly. “I’ve made no sacrifice. That’s nonsense, Mummy.”

“Son –”

_“No,_ Dad,” Mycroft insisted, rising to his feet to loom over them. “There is nothing going on here that warrants my parents’ concern.” He suppressed another scowl as he turned away and walked to the window. “For god’s sake … I’m forty-six years old. You don’t need to keep worrying about me like this.”

“We’re always going to worry about you and Sherlock, Mykie,” Violet said softly. “It’s part of being a parent and loving you.”

He turned from the window with a grimace and furrowed brows, then slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and leaned against the window sill. He looked from one concerned expression to the other, then exhaled noisily. “What more can I say to make you believe there is nothing …,” Mycroft’s voice trailed off at having such sad eyes fixed on him. “Oh for god’s sake,” he repeated as he pivoted on his heel and stared unseeingly out the window. “It doesn’t matter about Molly.” He heard movement behind him and could feel a muscle twitching in his cheek as he clenched his teeth. A few moments later, he flinched when his mother’s arm slid around his waist.

Violet stared at the river scene, seeing movement in the water and on the bridges, but taking none of it in. “Sex is good for you, Mykie.”

_“Mummy!”_ Mycroft twisted away and fixed an incredulous stare on his mother. He heard a snicker and turned to glower at Siger, who’d raised a hand too late to cover his mouth.

“Sex does help to relieve tension, son.” Siger pressed his lips together on seeing Mycroft’s indignant glare, but he couldn’t suppress a chuckle when his eyes met Violet’s. His laughter faded to a happy sigh as he held his wife’s gaze. “It’s sublime when you’re with the right person.”

Mycroft glanced from one parent to the other, then rolled his eyes at their air of distraction. “Get a room,” he muttered, looking at each of them crossly before turning back to the window. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, frustrated at how easily he’d once again reverted to childhood in the presence of his parents.

“Come sit down, Mycroft,” his mother said, slipping her arm around his waist again and urging him away from the window. Once they’d resettled on chair and sofa, Violet leaned forward, bracing her elbows on her knees and her chin on her clasped hands. “I’m sorry for teasing you, darling, but the point is valid. There’s nothing wrong with having someone you can spend some ‘quality time’ with, especially with the intensity of your work load. You’re old enough to know what you want and what you don’t want. If you can find someone who wants the same thing, you should go for it.” She straightened, then smiled as she relaxed against the sofa back. “Let yourself have some fun when time permits.” She was relieved when a flicker of amusement finally crossed his features.

“So you’re advising me to have a no-strings sexual relationship with someone,” Mycroft said. “You’re not going to try to convince me of the benefits of love and marriage and children –”

Violet suddenly sat up. “Well, if you’d really like to –”

“No, son,” Siger broke in, and Violet slumped back again. “Your private life is none of our business other than the fact that we love you and want you to be content. If you’re happy and feel better off being alone, we’ll accept that. If you end up having someone in your life to share some special moments, we’d be so glad for you – whether it’s Miss Hooper or someone else.”

Mycroft shifted in the chair and crossed his legs, then plucked at the material covering his knee. “I’m sure Molly’s had enough of anyone named Holmes.”

“Well, you wouldn’t have to be concerned about Sherlock’s reaction this time,” Violet said. “He doesn’t care about what you might do … well, so long as it doesn’t keep Molly from helping with his experiments.”

Mycroft snorted. “Yes, so long as no one inconveniences him,” he said drily, watching his fingers drum a beat on his knee. His fingers finally stilled when the silence went on for too long and he could feel his parents staring at him. “I think it best to leave things as they are,” he said evenly, aiming an uncompromising stare first at his mother, then his father. “I function better on my own, and Molly will certainly be better off in the long run without the likes of me.”

~~~~~

Sherlock quietly entered the morgue mid-morning Monday, coming alone and without any attempt to call attention to himself, and hesitated uncertainly when Molly glanced up. When she lowered her eyes to the body without speaking, he waited for several uncomfortable moments before casually making his way across the room. He came to a stop about six feet from her and softly cleared his throat. “Good morning, Molly.”

“Sherlock.” She didn’t look at him but knew he was watching her. “What do you want?” She weighed the heart, then set it aside to focus on the lungs.

“I’m sorry, Molly,” he said. “Please forgive me.”

Molly remained focused on her work for several moments, then sighed and lifted her gloved hands away from the body – still without looking at him. “What do you want this time, Sherlock?”

“I don’t want anything, Molly – just for you to forgive me.”

Molly raised her head and met his eyes. He looked to be in earnest, but Sherlock was brilliant at faking emotions he didn’t feel. “For what, Sherlock? What specifically do you want me to forgive you for?”

“For being so rude to you last week,” he quickly replied, “but especially for bringing my parents to your flat.”

Molly lowered her eyes to Mr. Doyal’s chest cavity but didn’t lift the scalpel. “That was humiliating, Sherlock.”

“I know, Molly, and I’m truly sorry.”

She raised her gaze to meet his. “All right, Sherlock. I believe you, but I need to finish this PM.” He looked so serious that she couldn’t help but give him a small smile. “We’ll talk again later, okay?”

“Yes - later,” he swiftly agreed, nodding his head. “I’m sorry for interrupting you.”

Molly tilted her head to study him more carefully, then snorted. “Better put a sock in it, Sherlock. You’re losing credibility.”

~~~~~

Molly was surprised when Sherlock walked into her office after lunch, dropped onto the visitor’s chair and commenced to study her so seriously that she leaned forward in concern. “What is it, Sherlock?”

“Anyone associated with Mycroft – anyone _known_ to be associated with him – is at risk. You need to decide whether you’re willing to accept that risk because you’ll likely have to convince Mycroft. He won’t willingly put you in danger.”

Molly settled back in her chair. “I’m sorry Mycroft has to live like that, but it’s not my concern,” she said. “Your brother and I are not involved.” One brow arched in disbelief as he continued to stare at her. “There is _nothing_ going on between us,” she insisted. “Whatever it was is over. Done. Buried.”

“Then I suspect my brother may soon be using a spade for the first time in his habitually lazy life,” he said.

“What are you – for god’s sake, Sherlock … are you now _encouraging_ a relationship between us?”

“Certainly _not,”_ he sharply denied. “However,” he continued after a few moments, “I won’t do anything to interfere with whatever twisted, dissolute, licentious debauchery you two might choose to indulge in.” Sherlock’s grimace relaxed and his lips quirked when Molly couldn’t resist laughing at his deliberate hyperbole. They regarded each other in unexpected harmony until he glanced away. After a few moments, he turned back to her with a scowl. “But please, Molly, for the love of god … don’t _ever_ attempt to share any confidences with me.” She smiled, but said nothing as he rose to his feet and swept toward the door, where he stopped and looked at her over his shoulder. “One other thing - if being with Mycroft starts to affect your work here, all bets are off.”

Molly frowned once he’d left, then shook her head and turned back to her computer. Sherlock must be wrong. Whatever had been between her and Mycroft had been wedded to secrecy and a desire to set aside the rest of the world for a while – desired elements which were weakened, if not lost, now that his family knew. Additionally, continuing with their arrangement now would be a deliberate choice rather than succumbing to an unexpected temptation.

And, if Sherlock _wasn’t_ wrong, was Molly willing to run the risk of being involved with Mycroft – not the potential risk of physical danger, but the risk of further damaging her heart?

~~~~~

Molly didn’t hear from Mycroft the rest of that week or the following one or the next week after that. On leaving Barts on the third Friday after the pertinent conversation with Sherlock, she smiled - a bit grimly perhaps, but a smile – at the thought that The Consulting Detective had indeed been wrong. So very wrong.

~~~~~

Eight days later, Molly had just finished her Saturday chores and was winding the vacuum’s cord, starting to consider options for her evening meal, when she heard a knock on the flat’s door. She noticed Toby look her way and turned her head to meet the cat’s stare, then arched a brow humorously. “Are you expecting someone, Toby?” After a few moments, the knock was repeated a fraction louder. After hanging the end of the cord over the handle, Molly walked to the door, stooping to pick up Toby on the way, then reached for the knob with her free hand … and abruptly stepped backward, eyes wide, jaw dropped.

“Good evening, Molly,” Mycroft said lightly and gave her a brief smile before lifting his chin at her feline companion. “Toby.” When Molly continued to stare at him, speechless, he added, “May I come in?”

**Author's Note:**

> Just a thought: If I stop writing Encounters here, then anyone who cares can imagine their own ending, and everyone will leave happy! Wouldn't that be nice? 
> 
> ETA: I do think readers would come up with wonderful endings that would make them happy, and it's not a bad idea. However, I've already named the next installment so ... Oh, well. Maybe next time! [Yes, I joke around way too much!!]
> 
> _Edited 7 April 2016 to add:_ It's come to my attention that the "structure" of this series could be confusing. If I'd known Mycroft's and Molly's initial encounter was eventually going to develop into a relationship, I would have started this as a multi-chaptered story instead of a series. Please note that the storyline of this Encounters series is chronological, so reading earlier parts will show how they got to where they are now. :)
> 
> For anyone who might be interested, I'm on Tumblr and devote 99.99% of my time and effort there to Mycroft/Mark love. [WaitingForTheThaw](http://waitingforthethaw.tumblr.com/)


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